What’s Next?

August 29, 2011 By

Last week after hearing of our earthquake and the coming hurricane, a friend from California emailed me asking, “What’s Next?”  Sometimes I wish I had a crystal ball, but then I rethink saying, “No, that isn’t what I want.”

On days like today, what I truly desire is for everyone, (those I know and don’t know) to be free from suffering. That includes all creatures, great and small.  I sit and do a loving kindness meditation and then ruminate on what I can do.   More often that not, I find myself drowning in overwhelming guilt, unable to do more than donate some money if it is needed and stay out-of-the-way of those who have the skills to truly be of help.

Today is no exception.  As I listen to news from Vermont, hard hit by Tropical Storm Irene, where I spent 20 years of my life and where many of my friends and relatives live, my heart is breaking.  There is a story from my sister-in-law, who lives in Burlington, whose friend’s husband went out yesterday evening to bring in his dogs during the height of the raging weather. He has not been seen or heard from since. His wife and kids were rescued later, from their home, where mud slides were rushing towards them. I wait with hope and prayers that there will be a happy reunion.

I’ve spoken with my brother, Zed, and my nephew, Jesse. They are fine, but I don’t know the fate of many friends who live along creeks and rivers that have turned to thunderous torrents, overrunning their banks, taking trees and buildings with them.  For a state like Vermont, small and populated by many elderly and poor people, this is a tragic situation.

Sitting here in Central Virginia, where the sun is shining and Irene never knocked, it is difficult for me to fathom.  How could I possibly know the pain if I haven’t been there to experience it.  I can and do, however, carry the pain of a bystander, wanting to jump into the mire to pull them all out, knowing I’d most likely drown before I could be of assistance, only causing more sorrow.

I had hoped to go to Vermont this summer to visit, but life has run away with me, leaving me little time to take on the kind of trip I’d wanted. One in which I could spend long afternoons with friends and family members; talking, remembering and taking in their stories.  A four or five-day trip wouldn’t cut it, but it would have been better than nothing, I suppose.

I didn’t make the trip and rather than be filled with regrets, I’ll move forward, holding those that I haven’t seen in such a long time, in my heart … my nephew, Ben, who is now a first year student at UVM, my nieces, Julia, whom I haven’t yet met, and Anya, bright and beautiful.  There are many others. I will get there. The storm, by the name of Irene, has reminded me once again, that here on earth, time flies by faster than a rocket to Mars.

P.S.  The man who disappeared last evening, has been found and is OKAY!

Filed Under: Life, stories, Vermont

On Earthquakes And Hurricanes

August 26, 2011 By

Today's Daily Progress

On Tuesday, I was in the cellar getting ready to fold freshly dried laundry.  At the instant I opened the dryer door, there was a huge rumbling sound, like a freight train about to crash through the house.  It felt like the walls around me were expanding and contracting. I charged up the stairs, realizing the house was shaking.  It was not the dryer door that had caused this havoc, it was a magnitude 5.8 earthquake, with it’s epicenter just 40 miles up the road.  We’ve since had 3 or 4 after shocks. Nothing terribly big, but enough to leave my dogs, Sam and Molly, on the clingy side, not letting us out of their sight.

There has been little to no damage here in Charlottesville, save for a fractured gas line that was repaired quickly.  In Mineral, where the quake was centered, several homes were destroyed and in Louisa, the elementary school built in the 50’s is probably going to be condemned.  Friend’s of mine, who are living in a new house in Louisa, have cracks in their basement floor. The nearby nuclear power plant at Lake Anna, was shut down automatically as the quake began, but only 3 of its back up power sources came on-line. That is being investigated.

Officials in Culpepper, just north of us, are razing an historically important building today because it is too dangerous to leave standing.  In Washington, DC, our magnificent National Cathedral was damaged and there is no word on whether or not it can be restored.

Nobody in the area expected this to happen.  No one has insurance that will cover damage from earthquakes.  It’s a separate add-on to a regular homeowner’s policy, that no one buys because we rarely have earthquakes here.   There have been only 25 quakes in Virginia since it became a state, according to what I heard on CNN.

Sometime tomorrow, Hurricane Irene will sweep up the East Coast after making landfall on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Virginia has already been declared in a State of Emergency.  At this time, New York City, is on the direct path the storm is likely to take.  Can you imagine being in a highrise on the 20th floor in surface winds of 85 miles-per-hour?  Can you envision what the City will be like when the subway systems and streets are flooded with the copious amounts of rain that could fall?  If you live on Long Island there are only a few ways off and around the City. Then where do you go?  Inland flooding is expected to be as dangerous or worse than what is being predicted on the coast.

In this country alone, it has been a summer of huge, natural disasters.  From tornadoes, flooding, drought, and searing heat, to earthquakes and hurricanes, it is a year to remember and contemplate.  What will the coming years be like?  Are we prepared for these catastrophic events?  Can Mayor Bloomberg do enough to keep his city safe?  What can any of us do?

Here in Central Virginia, we should experience winds up to around 30 mph tomorrow, along with about an inch of rain.  Unless Irene takes a more westerly route, we have little to worry about.  Sunday promises to be like any other day in paradise, while huge suffering will be taking place north of us into New England.

I wrote the following poem in 1989, as a way of dealing with my frustration over what we have been doing to our beautiful, blue planet and why we may be experiencing some the things that have been happening.

This dog

We are fleas upon this dog                                                                                                                 hopping about  sucking                                                                                                                     searching for a vein                                                                                                                             persisting in synthetic dreams                                                                                                           vinyl blue pools  golf course green grass                                                                                         rejuvenated monthly with fertilizers                                                                                               insecticides   fungicides

We sculpt the land                                                                                                                               cut trees for paradise                                                                                                                         strip malls  hurry up highways                                                                                                         lace the air with unseen gases                                                                                                           deadly vapors so thick                                                                                                                         we cannot see the views                                                                                                                     we cut the trees for

We pump heavy metals                                                                                                                       surgical leftovers into the sea                                                                                                           sit in the sun risking                                                                                                                           cancerous complexions                                                                                                                       on oil slicked beaches                                                                                                                         where dolphins lie dead

And this dog keeps spinning                                                                                                             chasing her tail                                                                                                                                     trying to scratch   chew                                                                                                                       nibble and shake the pain away

JZR

I know I sound gloomy and pessimistic, but what we are seeing is happening.   Each one of us must try to find ways of stopping the pollution, of understanding and attempting to reduce carbon emissions, bringing global climate change within reach of being lessened.  Some say we are beyond the tipping point, but I don’t find that to be a viable excuse to keep us from trying to leave a better world for our grandchildren.

Where ever you are this weekend, please be prepared and stay safe.

Filed Under: Life, Poetry, wonderings

The Teacher Around The Corner

August 23, 2011 By

Molly and Sam, ready to walk.

It’s seven AM.  It’s warm and the humidity is high.  I’m already sweaty. I go out the back gate with Sam and Molly in tow, for our early morning walk.  We like to go this way, up the street behind our house, but often we don’t, because if Lily, the cat is out, she’ll follow us.

Before we moved here, our home in the country was located on a cul-de-sac. There was little to no traffic. Lily and Pepper would often walk along with us. I’d trod down the lane, two dogs on leashes ahead of me, two cats taking up the rear or hiding in the tall grasses ready to pounce as we passed by. If neighbors were to drive by and see us, they’d automatically slow down, knowing that even if they didn’t see the cats, they were probably lurking about somewhere.

Here in the city it’s another matter.  Even though we live in a quiet neighborhood there is more traffic. A few people don’t obey the leash law, letting their dogs run about, chasing anything that moves.  So, I try to walk the dogs when all of the cats are in, which doesn’t always happen. In that case, if one of them discovers us heading up the street, I’ll turn back toward home, try to get the offending cat indoors and start out all over again.  But this morning, all three cats are safely inside eating their breakfast.

I’m not fully awake yet, feeling kind of cranky and longing for the chill of autumn. I went to bed on the late side last night and didn’t want to get up this morning. I have a busy day ahead of me with a number of appointments I can’t miss and don’t particularly want to go to.  I’ll be gone a good portion of the day, with no time to write, read or stare into space, which is one of my favorite things to do.  It’s a time when wild, creative ideas pop up or answers to tough questions take shape.  When I’m without a chance to breathe and take stock, I can easily turn into a curmudgeonly hag. Why do I schedule things so thickly that there is no time in-between?

Sam is tugging on the leash wanting to stop at every shrub to read the doggie newspaper and to leave his own drop or two of pee making it known that he was here.  Molly sniffs as well, but she’s more interested in finding morsels of smelly, possibly rotten things to eat or roll in that the trash people have spattered about, as they emptied garbage cans up and down the street, a day ago.

These trips can be slow going. That is why my morning routine is to take the dogs for a ten or fifteen minute walk, drop them back at home, then continue on a more lengthy power walk that leaves me feeling vibrant and ready to start the day with enthusiasm.  But that is not on today’s agenda.  Too many other things to do to get ready for what is yet ahead of me.

As we round the corner back onto our street, we meet a neighbor, slowly walking with her tiny, month old baby tucked in a sash tied across the mother’s back. The infant secure and pressed against her mom’s breast, must surely be comforted by the beat of her mother’s heart as they walk as one,  down the street toward home.

I stop to chat, admiring tiny fingers curled into fists and the soft, wispy auburn hair of the sleeping child. Mom smiles, tells me they’ve been pacing all night, the little one crying, unable to sleep.  But in this early morning light, the flow of tears has come to an end, her eyes are tightly shut and she’s fallen into a world of dreams.  I remember those nights, many years ago when my own babes kept me up.  I’d rock or walk them, trying to soothe the hurt of a gas-filled tummy or the new tooth slowly poking through swollen gums.

As they turn into their driveway, I wish them well, saying, “I hope today is better than your night was.”  The mother turns, smiling, gently hugging her precious bundle, saying, “We’re fine.  You know … it is what it is.”

The grousing tale I’ve been reciting in my head about how difficult my day will be, suddenly evaporates. I’m left with the warmth and soft glow of this new day.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, Navigating Through Life, stories

Living In The Shadow

August 19, 2011 By

Untitled, Copyright 2006, Joan Z. Rough

To live with the conscious knowledge of the shadow of uncertainty, with the knowledge that disaster or tragedy could strike at any time; to be afraid and to know and acknowledge your fear, and still to live creatively and with unstinting love: that is to live with grace.

Peter Abrahams

Filed Under: Wise Words

Writing Memories

August 16, 2011 By

Finding The Light, Copyright 2002, Joan Z. Rough

My favorite reads have always been creative non-fiction … stories about people, how they live and why they do what they do.  While biography and autobiography are interesting, it’s memoir that I savor. For me, reading a memoir is like reading a manual on living.  It can inspire, horrify, bring tears or laughter. Memoirs are so much more than just the mere facts of one’s life, and so unlike those essays most of us were asked to write when we were kids, about what we did this past summer.

In memoir, the reader is invited in to share the writer’s feelings; to honestly know what that person has experienced and what makes them who they are.  It is a visitation of sorts, like being a fly on the wall.  For me, reading memoir is like being with a friend I’ve never met or talked to, and who through their own challenges in life, can help me over some of the hurdles in my own.  It’s about seeing another take on why I’m here and how I’m doing. It’s about sharing a vision, and nodding as I read, thinking, “Wow, I know what she/he means. I’ve been there myself and know the pain.”  Regardless of how unlike we are from one another, it’s also about how we are alike. No matter how different the writer’s life is from my own, I know I have a companion on this long, crooked highway I’m traveling.

For years I’ve been asking myself why I can’t remember much from my younger years.  How is it that so many other people have such rich rememberings to share, while I have none.  Why is it I can’t recall my first best friend, or my first date? Am I keeping them hidden from myself?  Have I been hiding them, because I feel that any story I have to share, isn’t important?  Embarrassing? An admission of guilt?  Is it that I believe that I’ve not gained any wisdom or learned any lessons?  What are all those boxes of hand written journals about, stashed away in that storeroom across town?

Perhaps, at age 68, soon to be 69, I can’t hold it in any longer.  My story bladder is full and needs to be emptied.  Is it the extremely intense therapy I’ve recently gone through that has brought out what I’ve been secreting away.  It could be I’m beginning to trust that what I have to say is important and needs to be shared.  Maybe my own stories will make other people see their own challenges differently.  Maybe they will nod their head’s in agreement or universal knowing.

Last summer, after a spell of difficult years, I attended a writer’s retreat, led by Jennifer Louden, in Taos, New Mexico.  I hadn’t been anywhere by myself in over a decade. I wasn’t sure why I was going. But I knew that if I didn’t go, I might go crazy, kill myself, or waste away, having made no contribution to the world. I didn’t know what I would write … probably poetry, because that is what I had written in the past.  But for several months prior the retreat, the word memoir, bounced through my mind, teasing me, prompting me to wonder if I would write about my life.

I almost didn’t go. I was feeling excruciatingly anxious, afraid, and somewhat depressed. I was exhausted and overwhelmed by what life had put on my plate.  On the day of my departure, I told Bill that I couldn’t go.  I had too much to do here at home.  His response was, “I’m not going there,” loaded my bags in the car, and drove me to the airport.

As I walked down the narrow hallway through security, and to the plane that would fly me more than halfway across the country, I felt a bit lighter.  Once in the air, I felt an exciting freedom, that I hadn’t experienced in years.  My fear and angst dissolved into thin air.  I had made my first step into the next chapter of my life, in which I would meet some remarkable women, who would inspire and help me feel that I am not alone in this big, challenging world.

It wasn’t a full recovery that I made in that week.  I was still suffering from insomnia, which had been plaguing me for months, allowing me only about 3 hours of sleep a night.  I took short naps and began writing a piece that I called, Returning To Earth.  It was about coming back to life from a lengthy, dark night of the soul.  As I continued writing over the week, memories began to spring up, of times I hadn’t thought about in years.  I got my first 8 hours of sleep in a very long time.  I cried, laughed, shared poems that I’d written in the past, ate delicious, nourishing food and made friends with beautiful women from all over the country.  Best of all I began loving myself.

Later at home, the writing came to a halt, as I became aware of what could have been a serious health issue, uterine cancer.  But I was one of those fortunate ones, who dodged the  bullet.  The cancer was in its early stages and was completely removed by having a hysterectomy.  I remain cancer free today, and am living the promises I made to myself at the time: That regardless of what the prognosis, and no matter how long or short my life, I would make a practice of being grateful for all that I had been given and return the good fortune and kindness that had been gifted to me.

I also promised that I would begin writing down the family stories that began to come as I spent several months recovering from surgery.  My goal was to record as much as I could about my clan, so that my children and their children would know more about their roots.  My parents had left little or nothing of themselves, except for their possessions and behaviors. This blog became the vehicle of that sharing, not only of my family’s history, but of myself and the winding paths I have wandered down.  Little did I know, that it would become a healing mechanism for me, and that I would feel richer and happier for all of my experiences, good and bad.

Now, the more that I write what I remember, the more I remember and write.  What started out as a little writing project about my family, has turned into something much bigger.  I’ll often choose to write, rather than paint, though I must confess, both of these loves of mine, inform and feed each other.  I’m still not sure what this project will ultimately turn into, but it doesn’t really matter. I can say that it is a memoir.  It may take me years to finish.  Only one thing is certain: Writing down my stories and memories has become life changing for me.

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, Retreats and Workshops, stories
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